


Breathing in the year 1985

by blacklid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklid/pseuds/blacklid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to the Wagon Trail Motel from the Monument County Police Station, Dean gets caught up in some old and new memories while he waits for Sam to bring him dinner.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing in the year 1985

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene for 3.12, _Jus In Bello_. Lyrics are  _Dark Side of the Moon: Breathe_  by Pink Floyd.  
> 

Dean was sitting in the car, arm slung over, one knee resting on the bench seat, his eyes shut. Sam could see him through the plate glass window of the deli. He looked like he was singing, but his head wasn't tilted funny and his fingers weren't drumming on the wheel. Sam almost didn't hear the clerk ask for $10.83 for two sandwiches and two flat fountain drinks.

***

:"...Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!":

The tape squeaked through a loud tapping sound and the playback of Sam's muffled cough. Dean hit the eject button quickly and moved to stuff the tape back into the canvas duffel bag when he caught sight of Sam's gargantuan form emerging from the deli and popping the handle on the passenger side.

"No way!" Sam shouted and laughed loud enough to make Dean jump. "What the hell were you listening to?" Sam fumbled through the bag, looking for a warm tape.

"Nothin'," Dean cleared his throat and gave him a dismissive snort as he reached for the food, or a drink, or anything to change the subject, "Where's mine?"

Sam shifted the sandwich bag away with his knees and replied in a sing song voice, "Please hold. The next available hoochie mama will assist you shortly."

Dean narrowed his eyes and tried to decide which bag to grab away.

"Aha!" Sam raised his eyebrows with a pleased smile on his face and looked from Dean to the tape and turned it over. He frowned. "You let me record over Dark Side of the Moon?"

Dean grimaced.

Sam chuckled suddenly, "You were listening to that exorcism rit-"

"Not exactly and hey, it doesn't matter," Dean grabbed at the sandwiches and unwrapped both of them before he found his. He tossed the other one over the green duffle at Sam, who shrugged to catch it in the crook of his arm. Dean took a huge bite, "The Pink Floyd label is just an inside joke. It's not what was on there anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"Pink Floyd? You know... _The Sound_?"

Sam shook his head in confusion. "We listen to it all the time."

Dean waved his hand. "Not this one... never mind. This one's..."

Taking an equally huge bite, Sam questioned his brother with large eyes and open mouthed chewing.

Dean popped the tape back in, reverse side this time, and hit the rewind button. They sipped and chewed through the interlude, Sam pretending not to be amused. When the tape snapped and started playing, Dean brought his gaze up from the floorboard and let it rest on Sam's face with a closed smile.

Sam knitted his eyebrows and his head jerked in surprise. "You're not kidding. What is this?"

Snaps and a long hiss whispered out of the speakers, then a soft voice drifted through. Dean reached up placidly and increased the volume.

:"This is gonna be fun.": said the smooth voice sarcastically over a duet of screeches and thumps.

As soon as Sam recognized the voice, he stopped chewing and stared open mouthed at the stereo, half eaten bite of sandwich completely forgotten. Dean's mirth at the sight showed only in his eyes.

"Bobby?..." Sam whispered.

Dean tilted his head back and pointed toward the sound with a silencing finger.

Bobby's voice was younger, less gravelly, but definitely still worn. His efforts to speak were almost being drowned out by the incessant rhythmic squeaks and thuds.

:"Dean, stop jumping on the... freakin' couch and git yer butt down here. D'ya wanna do this or not?":

Sam turned to ask Dean a question, but it flew out of his head the second he saw his face. Dean was staring pensively, almost longingly, at the tape as he listened. Suddenly, a loud sucking sound erupted over the speakers and made Sam jump. Dean snorted soda.

A small child was breathing right into the microphone, obviously with an open mouth.

"UUUmmmmm... thiiiiisssss issss...": said the little voice and the breathing happened again as the sound of another child's voice rang shrilly in the background.

:"Uncle Bobby?" :squeak, squeak: "Can we-" :squeak: "-sing him-" :squeak: "-a-" :squeak: "-song?" :squeak, squeak, squeak:

Sam almost inhaled a piece of lettuce. "That's me? That's us?"

"Well, that's me," Dean's eyes twinkled, "You're the one being all sexy with the heavy breathing."

"Shut up."

"...took my Batman cape!": the child's voice whined.

:"I gave it to him.": Bobby's voice retorted flatly.

The strains of a guitar being tuned and strummed lightly faded into the background and then became louder as Bobby dragged the microphone, apparently on a stand, across the wood floor.

:"Sammy, you do the beat, okay?": said the child's voice and a smaller high-pitched whine of disagreement followed it.

:"Sam, c'mere and stand next to me.": Bobby said.

A cadence of stomps and puffs paraded through the mic again. :fomp, fomp, whoosh:

Sam could see Dean's chest start shaking at the edge of his vision and when his eyes darted over he saw Dean trying to stifle his laughter, using the side of one hand to cover his mouth.

:"Sammy! Don't eat it. Talk in it.":

The chords of the guitar evened out as Bobby played a highly-simplified opening. Little Sam's face pulled away from the mic enough to start jamming to the tap that Bobby's hands produced on the side of the guitar. :"Bop, bop..." :thud: "bmmmhmm, bop, bop, bop":

Dean burst into laughter. "You never did have a sense of rhythm, Sammy," he cackled.

:"Dean?!...": Bobby's voice on the recording sounded a bit like a drill sergeant.

Dean snapped his mouth shut automatically in response to the tone on the recording and it was Sam's turn to guffaw.

A sliding sound, like a child's knees scraping at the floor, hissed over the accompaniment of three voices.

:"Home, home again.

I like to be here when I can.

When I come home cold and tired

It's good to warm my bones beside the fire.

Far away across the field

The tolling of the iron bell

Calls the faithful to their knees

To hear the softly spoken magic spells.

Hooooome...":

Bobby strummed the last chord in a playful crescendo and Dean's childish tenor cracked as he yelled to meet the sound level. :"Hoooooooooooome! Yeah...":

:clank. stomp. stomp. thud.:

Sam sat frozen except for the slow shake of his head and stared at Dean, who stared right back.

Sounds of laughter and clapping lasted for a few seconds and then Bobby's voice rose above the clatter. :"Okay boys, say g'night to yer Daddy.":

Dean had taken the mic, the telltale scuffling of knees on the floor giving him away. :"Thenk ya... thenk ya vury much...":

:"Dean.": Bobby warned.

:"'Night, Dad and hey when you get back wait 'til you see what I got ya for your birthday and I'm gonna sing you 'Happy Birthday' when you get back, okay? Totally. And Dad, there was this bug and Sam tried to eat it and-":

:"Deano, it's Sam's turn.":

:"I love you, Dad...": the voice faded.

Sam watched as Dean's face grew dark around the edges and looked down, past the steering wheel, past the floorboard, into the road beneath the car, into the earth beneath that.

Another shuffle of fabrics and scrapes of metal in the playback denoted Bobby picking up both the microphone and Sam from the floor in one swift movement. :"Sam, can you say goodnight?":

:"Nhnnn, Hnnn.":

:"Well then, go on.":

There was a big breath on the tape.

There was a big breath in the car.

:"G'night Daddeee. Tight... seep tights.":

:"Bedbugs!": shouted little Dean in the background.

:"Noooo! No bet bugs!": little Sam whimpered.

A rattle on the mic sounded like fingers on buttons and a deep, quick inhale that spoke of Bobby wanting to add a word or two of his own, but then thought better of it. Childish banter and screaming lasted for a few more seconds before there was a final click and the tape hissed blankness.

For all the thoughtfulness passing over Dean's face, he appeared to enjoy the utter bewilderment on Sam's face the most.

"How... where did you get that?" Sam asked, no weight behind the words.

"In Buffalo."

"How old were we?"

Dean shrugged with his good shoulder and scratched at the day and a half old stubble on his cheek, "I dunno. Around six and two, I think."

"Do you remember that?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

Sam was still gaping, but a little less now. He focused hard on the points of light flickering on the hood of the car. "Are... were there any of Dad?" he whispered.

"Nah. Just this one."

Sam closed his mouth and sniffed.

Dean started the car, ejected the tape and handed it to him. "This is a copy. For you. Made it a few weeks ago. Before..."

Sam glanced at him and looked down quickly. He rubbed his thumbs over the tape.

"You hang onto that."

Sam nodded wordlessly.

They drove for a few miles in silence.

Dean shifted his legs and resettled his shoulder. "Don't go thinkin' I'm gonna leave you any karaoke'd Def Leppard ballads. This is all you get."

Sam's smile was subdued as he watched Dean drive. "This is all I need."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He found it months ago. It was in an old metal cigar box with a sticky lid and some of the tapes were corroded from the dampness of the room - it made the box rust, you see.

He pulled them all out one by one to amuse himself one evening while Sam was out; he found that one and laughed and shook his head because he knew John loved Pink Floyd. Just how many copies did you make exactly, Dad? But the only player he had was in the car, so he put it in his jacket pocket and waited for an opportunity. And it was a long while that he carried that tape around. He could feel it there, in the pocket, whenever he moved, whenever he walked, or sat down, or shouldered Sam in the ribs.

It was exactly one month and two days later when he popped it into the player. The first side had Dark Side of the Moon on it. He avoided listening to it nowadays; he heard it so often for a few years that it became a vitriolic pile of steaming turd in his brain, remembering the mood that it would put his Dad in whenever he listened to it. But. But. Now.

He leaned back on the bench seat, felt the need to slide over to the passenger side and lay his left hand where he had been, pretended the warmth was someone's other than his own. He sat like that, just listening and thinking, for a long time.

Then the tape snapped and turned over.

He didn't move as he heard the muffled sounds of Bobby's voice or his own. He smiled slightly, expelled a wry burst of air at little Sammy's antics. Only his expression changed. He stayed perfectly still, like moving would break the spell, change the tape, change the fact that he'd ever found it. He remembered. He remembered all of it, from the fugly color of the couch down to how long it took Sammy to fall asleep that night...after scads of promises that no, bedbugs were not going to get you, Sammy, I swear. Cuz I'm right here. G'night Dad... I love you...

A tear rolled down his cheek and he didn't move to wipe it away. He sat there as the tape hissed and finally turned over again.

He wished he and Sam had had this all that time... all this time Dad was gone... for when he was gone. He sat up and sniffed, popped the tape out. Well, that could be fixed.


End file.
